


One of these days

by stripedwolf



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Also slightly depressing, Angst, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Relationships, Explicit Language, Hurt No Comfort, I don't know how to tag this, Introspection, It's more of a character study really, M/M, Poor Jesse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 12:56:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10021643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stripedwolf/pseuds/stripedwolf
Summary: It's like a law of nature, this screwed up partnership of theirs: the Sun rises from the east, and Jesse Pinkman can't fucking quit Walter White.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I know I'm kind of late to this party, but I somehow managed to avoid BrBa for years before finally deciding to give it a go a few weeks back and, lo and behold, basically watching the entire show in one sitting. Somewhere around S4 I got hit by some pretty intense Walt/Jesse feels I needed to get out of my system, and this is the result. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> If you have any feedback or criticism, or you'd just like to say hello, please feel free to leave a comment. :)

Here's the thing about old houses: despite how well you take care of them, they'll still have their quirks. Aunt Ginny's old home is no different—a lot of the things around the house could use some fixing, and even the shit that does work seems to do so almost grudgingly. His aunt used to say it gave the place character; Jesse thinks he could maybe do with a little less character and a little more working plumbing at the moment.

The old pipes rumble loudly in protest before the pressure finally builds up and water spurts from the showerhead. The cold spray hits Jesse right in the face and makes him jump back with a quiet yelp. He reaches for the shower handle from the side, trying to avoid getting under the freezing water while adjusting the temperature. Jesus Christ, it's like playing a hot and cold roulette every time he takes a shower. He's got to get these damn pipes fixed before he ends up in the ER with frostbite or something.

He turns up the heat until the water is almost hot enough to burn, then cranks it up even more until it gets just on the side of painful. The steaming water burns his scalp, the lash of it searing against the naked expanse of his back; almost too much to bear, but Jesse forces himself to stand still and make himself feel it. He welcomes the pain, maybe even takes some solace in the knowledge that comes with it—that if he can hurt like this, at least he's still alive, which, to be honest, is more than he was expecting at this point. In any case, it's a hell of a lot better than the alternative, which is feeling nothing at all. He's not sure how much more of _that_ he can take.

The day has been... hard. Actually, fuck that: the day has been a fucking disaster, rapidly deteriorating from bad to catastrophic from the moment he got up from bed this morning, and the funny thing is it's not even a novelty anymore. Just another day from hell in the growing series of metaphorical sucker punches that, put together, make up the clusterfuck that is Jesse's life. It's like that's the new norm for him now, shit hitting the fan with such regularity he can't even bring himself to be surprised about it when it happens. Granted, it's a little late to start regretting his life decisions now, so he tries not to dwell on it too much.

And yet.

In rehab, there was a lot of talk about taking responsibility for your own actions—or, as Jesse liked to put it, owning up to your shit—and he can't exactly deny that, so far, his entire life has been one bad decision after another. Like maybe if he'd done things differently, even just once, his life wouldn't be such a huge fucking mess right now. But no, it's like he's determined to make the worst possible choices at any given time.

Someone once told him he has the self-preservation instinct of a lemming. It's not exactly inaccurate. If Jesse was in a room with an ominous red button with big angry letters spelling 'self-destruct' written next to it, he would press it, no question. Maybe not instantly and possibly not even on purpose, but sooner or later it would happen because, let's face it, it's what he does. Self-destruction? That's kind of his thing. And yeah, he can admit to making more than a few bad calls down the road, but at the same time, it's almost as if the universe has got it against him or something. Because Jesse just can't seem to catch a break.

Lately, it seems no matter what he does, he always ends up making things worse, sending himself deeper down the abyss. It's an endless fucking spiral. He's never felt less in control of his own life—not even when he was using, and that's saying something. It's not just the endless work-related problems that seem to pile up on his doorstep whenever he turns his back; it's this fucking uncertainty of his own position that's really getting to him. There's this continuous feeling of dread in his stomach, like he's expecting some sort of violence breaking out at any moment, and it's driving him crazy.

It's probably a little unfair of him, but he can't help but feeling that a lot of—scratch that, _most_ of what's wrong with his life comes down to his partnership with a certain chemistry-teacher-turned-meth-cook who just can't stay the fuck away from him. Seriously, he's never met a guy who can turn gold to shit so fast, like some sort of reverse Midas, and Jesse's met a lot of screw-ups in his time. And yet... somehow Jesse can't seem to shake him off. Oh, he'll try, alright—he'll tell the asshole he wants nothing to do with him and they'll go their separate ways, and for a moment, Jesse will think he might have a chance to fix his life. Like maybe he has a fighting chance, at least.

But then, without fail, his partner will show up on his doorstep with one reason or another, and it always makes sense, see, like he always makes it sound like Jesse will be better off if he comes back and they start cooking again. And just like the idiot that he is, Jesse always does. It's like a law of nature, this screwed up partnership of theirs: the Sun rises from the east, and Jesse Pinkman can't fucking quit Walter White. Not that it really matters anymore, since the hole they've managed to dig themselves into this time is so deep it would take an actual act of God to get them out of it alive.

In all likelihood, they're stuck with each other for the rest of their probably rather short lives.

Frankly, Jesse wakes up every day expecting it to be his last. It's not even a question of if, anymore, just a question of when. He figures it's karma coming back to him or something—he's cheated death so many times during these past few months, it's actually a small miracle he's still breathing. The thing is, he knows he's not that lucky. Sooner or later, someone's going to come knocking and finish the job. The only thing he doesn't know is who's going to be the one pulling the trigger. Hell, there are probably people lining up for the opportunity. Maybe he'll do it himself, save everyone else the trouble.

It's not like he has a hell of a lot to live for, in any case.

 

\--//--

 

He doesn't know how long he stands under the scalding spray of water. It could be minutes or it could be hours for all he knows. By the time he finally finds the willpower to step out of the shower, the bathroom is filled with thick steam; thick enough that, for a moment, Jesse is struck with an odd thought that if he tried to inhale now, he would simply suffocate. The swirling tendrils of vapor remind him of other things—bad things—and he swats at them angrily to scatter them and the memories he'd rather stayed buried.

Aunt Ginny once told him there's nothing more refreshing than taking a good long shower because water is nature's way of soothing the soul. It's supposed to be, like, purifying or some hippie shit like that. Jesse doesn't feel particularly soothed, and he sure as hell doesn't feel pure. All he feels is weary to the bone.

He pulls a towel from the rack and ties it loosely around his waist, not bothering to dry himself off. The mirror above the sink is completely fogged up, and he wipes it clear with the back of his hand. His reflection stares back at him judgingly, and Jesse can't help but to wince at the sorry excuse of a human being he sees there. (Too skinny for his own good, but what else is new?) He has a nasty cut above his left brow and the beginnings of an ugly bruise on his cheek, but those will heal, at least. He's more concerned about his sunken eyes and the dull, weary look in them that makes him look more like a living corpse than an actual person. He turns his eyes away rather quickly.

Jesse opens the door with a sigh, letting some of the steam escape outside. The warmth of the shower still clinging to him, he pads into his bedroom barefoot, shivering at the feeling of cold floor under his toes. Perhaps it says something about his current state of mind that he's already crossed half the room before a sudden sense of wrongness hits him and makes him raise his eyes in alarm. What he sees stops him cold.

Mr. White is sitting on the edge of his bed.

Jesse narrows his eyes, gritting his teeth— _the asshole is breaking into his house now?—_ and brushes past him, decidedly ignoring his unwelcome guest. He wants nothing to do with the man, and the fact that Mr. White doesn't seem to get the hint—that he'll show up here after being explicitly told, multiple times, in fact, to stay the hell away from him—is making Jesse both angry and, if he's being perfectly honest, slightly uneasy. He suddenly doesn't feel warm anymore, the lingering heat from the shower replaced by the cold emptiness that always seems to settle in his stomach around his partner these days.

He walks to where his dresser stands in the corner, stubbornly keeping his back towards the other man. "Get the fuck out of my house," he growls as he wraps his fingers around the handle of the topmost drawer. He's _so_ not in the mood for this shit right now. He gets the drawer open with an angry jerk and rummages around in mock search of clean underwear, trying to buy himself time in the vain hope that Mr. White will, for once, just take the fucking hint and leave.

Yeah. Dream on, Pinkman.

Of course he can't be that lucky: Jesse hears a silent shuffle of clothing behind him—Mr. White standing up, presumably—and then slow, deliberate steps on the hardwood floor, heading straight towards him. Even though he's not exactly surprised that Mr. White is, as usual, doing whatever the hell he wants, his own reaction to it comes somewhat unexpected. The word 'anger' doesn't even begin to describe the flare of blinding rage that washes over him. Jesse shoves his hand deeper into the drawer until he finds what he's looking for, fingers closing around cold metal. It had seemed like such a stupid place when he'd first been thinking about where to stash the gun, but now he's kind of grateful for his lack of imagination.

"Didn't you hear me, yo?" he snaps, not even trying to hide the hostility in his voice as he whirls around with the gun pointed at Mr. White's head. The click of the safety is loud in the quiet room, and Jesse thinks he might appreciate the effect if he was watching this as an outsider, not the one with the gun in his hand. "I want you gone, asshole," he says, willing the words to come out with more authority than he feels, which is pretty much zero.

Mr. White stops midstep, assessing the situation. Whatever he sees on Jesse's face must not be enough to convince him, though, because after about half a minute of this fucked up staring contest, his lips quirk into a mocking sneer. "Are you going to shoot me now, Jesse?" he asks, his voice laced thick with sarcasm, and takes another step forward.

Jesse swallows, trying to rein in the panic he feels rising in his chest. It's not the first time they've been at odds with each other, and the truth is, they both know he doesn't have the guts to go through with it. Even with the gun pointed right between his eyes, not a muscle moves on Mr. White's face—the guy is fucking ice, and how the hell does that even happen, how does someone go from being a mild-mannered high school teacher to something like... Heisenberg.

"I'm warning you—" Jesse starts, but by then Mr. White's right in front of him, calmly reaching for the gun, and all the while he never breaks eye contact. Jesse, pathetic as he is, can only helplessly watch as he takes hold of the weapon and gently pries it from Jesse's shaking hand, then snaps the safety back on and sets the gun on top of the dresser. He's clearly unconcerned about leaving it within Jesse's reach, as if the possibility of him suddenly growing a pair and going after the weapon is not even worth consideration.

Jesse almost laughs at the absurdity of it. He might, if he wasn't on the verge of tears already. The anger has faded away, replaced by the dull ache of resentful acceptance. He closes his eyes with a resigned sigh. Jesus, he really is fucking laughable.

He doesn't say anything more when Mr. White steps into his space, imposing and too close, making his heartbeat jump up in nervous expectancy. Nor does he open his mouth in protest when the man's hands settle on his hips, where the towel is now riding dangerously low. Jesse thinks about the cool metal of the gun, the too-familiar weight of it in his hand, and the vague possibility that maybe one of these days he'll find the presence of mind to pull the fucking trigger and be done with it.

_One of these days, motherfucker_ , he thinks even as the towel falls on the floor and Mr. White crushes their mouths together in a bruising, mean, not-quite-kiss that Jesse will lean into like a man starving, even though he knows that _this_ , this right here, is probably what's going to get them both killed at the end of the day.


End file.
